


Untitled

by mattador



Category: Dragaera - Steven Brust
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-09
Updated: 2010-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-11 15:21:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/113837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattador/pseuds/mattador
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Witches get their familiars in a variety of ways, but always at the end of their apprenticeships.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [faile02](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=faile02).



"Old man! If you don't come out of that witch-boy's shack, I'll bring that it down around your ears!"

The silver-haired man sighed and stood, aware of the concerned gaze of his apprentice on him.

"Do not worry so much," he said chidingly. 'This man, he is dangerous, yes, but he does not practice the Art, and he does not have the gifts of the Goddess that I do. Besides, should it fall out badly for me, I have lived as long as an elf, or nearly, and that should be more than enough for any man. I do not think he will trouble you, but if he does you must be cleverer than I have been. I have taught you all that I can teach to an apprentice. The next steps you must take alone, whether I am there to watch you or no." He touched his fingers to the boy's forehead and spoke a blessing.

"Old man! I grow tired of waiting!"

"Master Ambrus," the boy began, "I should-" the old man's fingers fell from his brow and touched upon his lips, silencing him. Shaking away the locks of hair that fell before his face, the old man- Ambrus- picked up his cane from where it leaned on the wall and made his way to the door, pushing through the curtaining that covered it.

"Have patience, my friend," he called. "Perhaps waiting has not yet tired of you." Leaning carefully on his cane, he stepped out into the street, and in the ramshackle hut behind him, his apprentice- a tall, broad-shouldered boy with curly hair, worried eyes, and clever fingers- moved to the doorway, peering out through the curtain.

The man who waited for his master was tall and whip-slender, with an angled grin and eyes that shone with madness. He was a wild dog with foamjaw. But he still walked as a man walked, wearing a man's skin. His grin was pointed at Ambrus now, and he tumbled a stone through his fingers, something now blue, now purple. But for that he was unarmed, carrying with him none of the tools of the Art. But he had called for the witch of the village, and a house he had not put a hand to still smouldered, a scattering of cinders no larger than those in a fire pit all that remained.

"I'm not your friend," the man said, and stepped forward, once.

Ambrus nodded, placidly. "And what is it that you would have of me, then?"

"I want you to know that you have no power," he sneered.

"I admit it freely. My strength in the Art flows from the Demon Goddess, and my wisdom from her teachings. None of this is my own to claim."

The angled smile wilted, becoming anger, hard and dead. "I think you have something more to learn of the Demon Goddess, old man. Like all her other toys, she'll discard you when she was finished with you, and what you call Art is but a pale shadow, a weak crutch for children- the true Test she teaches to few, and you know nothing of it."

He drew back his hand as if preparing for a slap, and the blue-purple stone he carried with him vanished between the curl of clenching fingers.

*****

Through the cat's eyes, every shape had more depth. Every motion was bold and evident against the shadows, which were thinner, weaker things than the witch-boy remembered. The night was friendlier, and his feet moved surely on the rocky ground without attention or effort.

The spell he'd used was, by tradition, the last one Master Ambrus had taught him, and as soon as his nerves would cool he'd stopped fleeing westward and cast it.

He could still see the spell the stranger had thrown in his mind's eye- unerring as a sling stone, at his gesture a cloud had formed, or something like to a cloud- a mass of radiance and melted light, swirling, and the loose tendrils of its smoke clinging like small dark hands to Master Ambrus' limbs. The cloud seemed like the mists within a seeing-stone- through them or in their depths he saw a dance of shapes- not imagined cloud-castles but distinct, disturbing images, for they seemed to be standing there right before him: a vast, proud jhereg, looming over him and leering down with a thousand small, black-hilted daggers instead of teeth, and a ramshackle house whose curtain door swayed as something passed it, a sword with an almost blue light that played over its blade, and a little girl staring solemnly up at him, and when he looked again half his master had vanished into the cloud, or been made one with it. Without thinking he darted through the door, reaching out to try to pull his master back, and when his hand closed on where the collar of Master Ambrus' shirt should be, he felt fur and a ruff of skin beneath it.

When he looked, he was holding a white cat in his hand- an old, ragged thing with an intent and cunning look in its eye. He glanced into the cloud again, and at once had to look away. His master was not in the cloud any longer, but a thousand dark hands surrounding a dark and knowing violet eye, and around it something empty and hungry that would swallow the world.

He ran. It was perhaps an hour, perhaps two, when the weight of the cat on his shoulder made him pause, and think. If his master had failed against the sharp-smiled stranger, perhaps there was something he could do- to avenge him, or to protect the village, or to save himself- for the stranger's hatred of the Art would lead him in pursuit. He was nothing more than an apprentice- he could not dream that he might succeed where his master had not. But he was a masterles apprentice, and he had been told he was ready to take his next step...

The incense and the herbs were all in his belt pouch, though he had no brazier. The firepit sufficed, however, and when the smoke of the spell had cleared, he had a familiar.

With the cat who had been his master beside him, the witch-boy ran on.


End file.
